RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2) Read online

  “I do not want many. What this is all about,” Aithinne grumbled, glaring at the silver goblet.

  “You want Phelan Comyn or Dinsmore Campbell coming to Lyonglen to claim you? Then it would be rape, for you would never consent.” She rotated about Aithinne, fixing her with bespelling eyes. “Of course, you could have had Robert Bruce. He paid you court. But no, you turned him down.”

  “Edward’s Lordling?” She huffed. “The new Lord Carrick merely wanted Lyonglen and Coinnleir Wood―the strongholds a sword to the back of the Comyns, simply to enlarge Clan Bruce’s base of power into the Highlands. I shan’t be used for men’s games of intrigue. Damn them all. They care naught about me, only want the holdings.”

  “Then, damn them all. This way you keep the power. You wield the magic.”

  “But to lie with a stranger? Oona, I do not even ken his name.” Aithinne’s hand shook as she looked at the cup, which contained the power to change the rest of her life.

  “Ah, my pretty lass, with a man like that in her bed…a woman takes first―then asks riddles. Time and tide are right.” Her laugh was lusty. “The man is right. Aye, long of limb, built like a mighty steed. Ride him, take his seed within you, milk him dry. Learn your woman’s pleasure. This night and six more. Tarry not. The moon rises late. When its pale light floods the tower room, make him yours. The spell is cast. No turning back―for you or him.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, Aithinne tried to steady her hand. What a fool she had been to think this would be easy, a solution to the quagmire in which she found herself. First, lies had been to keep the greedy wolves away from Lyonglen, then to prevent Dinsmore or Phelan from carrying her off, holding her hostage until one sired a bairn upon her, thinking to compel her into a Highland marriage.

  One lie begets many. Now, she stood here, preparing to surrender her virginity to a stranger. How many lies would this deed breed?

  Fear coursed through her. Shaking, she almost dashed the cup against the wall, calling an end to the madness. She could not go through with this harebrained scheme.

  Oona had been specific in her instructions, how a man and a woman joined. Of course, living in a fortress it was hard not to have some ideas of the ways of breeding. There were horses breeding, cows breeding, sheep breeding. Her brow crinkled. It seemed the whole bloody world spent a large portion of their life breeding―or talking about it.

  Everyone but her, she sighed.

  Though Oonanne’s tutelage proved enlightening, Aithinne frankly did not understand how some of it was accomplished. She shuddered. No, she could not go through with this foolish, desperate plot.

  More lies piled upon the many. It was difficult to keep track of the falsehoods she had told over these past two months. Harder each day to sift mendacity from truth.

  Oonanne watched her, clearly scrying her mind. Gifted with The Kenning, the old witch read her every thought. Though possessed of the sight herself, Aithinne knew no shield against the woman’s powers. Oona’s words broke her deliberations.

  “You shall regret no’ following through on the course you already set into motion. Do not turn back, lass. There be but a moment of pinprick pain for a maid, then his flesh be within your body, deeper than you can imagine. Breathe slowly. Take him in, bond to him with fire. Your body has slept for too many years. Let him make you a woman.”

  She spoke in a singsong pattern, weaving the spell to see her lady prepared. Aithinne knew this. The pull of the words were dark.

  “He will suckle your breasts, but not as a babe. Let him. Encourage him. You shall warm to this. He will pinch your nipples―”

  “Why? That would hurt.” Shocked, Aithinne’s frown lifted from the goblet.

  “What hurts you in this breath and what hurts when you are with him are two different turns. You shall like it, crave it. Mayhap beg for it. Such caresses prepare your body for his possession.”

  Fighting dizziness, strange hungers stirred to life in Aithinne. That scared her. Terrified her. Never had she known these things existed within her body, her mind. Despite the slow burn at the base of her belly, she was unsure about opening herself to any man in this manner.

  Just as the muscles in her arm tensed to hurl the goblet aside, her brother Deward flung open the door and raced in. “Aithinne! Dinsmore Campbell and his men are at the gates, they demand entry, say ’tis late and they require food and lodging, what shall we do, you cannot let them in.”

  Eyes wide, Aithinne lifted the goblet and downed the drugged cider in one gulp.

  Instead of tasting foul as Oonanne’s tansies usually did, this one was sweet. Heat flooded her stomach with the power of uisge-beatha―whiskey. Tingling, vibrating in her blood, it spread through her, singeing her flesh. It caused a spasm within her womb, a clenching like a fist.

  “Sister, fare you well?” Deward looked confused. But then, Deward always looked confused.

  Steps clattered in the hall and two more young men rushed in, echoes of the first―Hugh and Lewis. When the Creator handed out brains, she figured her three brothers only received one amongst them. She could not even call them half-wits. The triplets were third-wits.

  Thundering footfalls brought up the rear. The huge Norseman ducked under the door’s opening to enter. The instant he saw Aithinne he fell to his knees, fisted his hand and thumped his chest in a salute. “Princess Aithinne, the knave Campbell demands entrance.”

  She sighed wearily. “Einar, up off your knees, and stop calling me Princess.”

  He arose, bowing. “Aye, Princess.”

  Aithinne closed her eyes, willing herself far away from this place. Hoping to find she was elsewhere, she lifted an eyelid. She sighed. Her spell of making failed. Four shining faces stared at her, eagerly awaiting guidance.

  Oh, but for a man who could fight for her instead of lean upon her. Controlling her holding of Coinnleir Wood proved difficult enough. Now she lied and schemed to keep Lyonglen out of either the Comyns’ greedy grasp, or hands of the ever-voracious Campbells.

  “Betwixt a hard place and a rock,” she muttered.

  It would be so satisfying to have a man to aid her. A helpmate to keep such troubles at bay, a man to share the burdens of both fiefs. Someone to hold her in the dark of night, and lend his warmth.

  Oonanne lifted her brow. “Careful what you wish, lass. The Auld Ones hear unspoken desires and can grant them.”

  “I wish that were so.”

  “Done!”

  Aithinne blinked. “Hmm?”

  “You wished it so. Remember for what you asked,” Oonanne warned, shaking a finger at her.

  So tired of these past months, Aithinne rubbed her forehead. She looked up at the Viking and summoned her cloak of lies. “The gates of Lyonglen remain closed. My lord husband feels unwell and wishes no visitors. His pennon does not fly from the rampart. That should tell even a lackwit Campbell our gates are closed to all comers, to seek shelter elsewhere.”

  Hugh let out with a shout and clapped his hands. “Siege! Can we pour boiling oil down upon their white-blond Campbell heads?”

  She laughed. “Nay, but you may empty the chamber pots on them shouldst they refuse to leave.”

  Lewis capered in delight, then scurried off after Hugh and the Viking, thrilled to have Campbells to torment. Only Deward remained, watching her with soulful eyes.

  “Sister, how long shall you hide behind an ailing husband when he lies cold in the ground this moon’s passing, and he was not your husband anyway, and you do not really have a claim to Lyonglen, and what happens when the dread Edward Longshanks, King of the English, comes and then you shall―”

  “Deward, hush your gub. I am aware my predicament and the mounting deceits might see me in White Tower, prisoner before the English king.”

  “What of the man in our tower, did we not do good, does he not please you? Whilst I look not upon men in fondness as a maid would, he be bonnie. Hugh, Lewis and Einar agree he is perfect for you, he be bonnie, a strong man, we tried to pleas
e you. Do you not like him, he be strong―”

  “Deward, shush!” She cupped her brother’s pretty face with her hand and smiled into his warm amber eyes.

  She had hoped these childish ways of the triplets would lessen as they reached manhood. As they neared seven and ten years, hope faded fast. Still, she loved them. Caring brothers, they would do anything she asked―evidence of that lay in her bed upstairs in the north tower. They were just a little…hmm…absentminded at times.

  Fortunately, Einar protected them. The tall man served as her guard of honor. Every lady of Coinnleir Wood received the gift of her personal Viking warrior-guard as part of an ancient agreement with the Norse King Rolv, some four centuries past. Pushing her to exasperation, Einar dogged her every step. While a braw warrior, he had as much common sense as her three brothers. Perfect solution, set him to guarding the lads―that protected her Hugh, Deward and Lewis, but also kept the Norseman from trailing after her, calling her princess and driving her daft.

  “I thank you for your concern and for fetching such a bonnie stranger. You did well, Brother. No sister could be so blessed.” Or curst, she chuckled to herself.

  “Come, Deward! We tipped the chamber pots over on Dinsmore Campbell! Such glee!” Hugh shouted as he danced into the room, laughing. “Dunny Dinsmore! Dunny Dinsmore!”

  “Hie yourself off with him,” she encouraged with a smile.

  Deward paused at the door, his eyes revealing more understanding than she thought possible from him. “Och, Aithinne, go see our stranger. He is bonnie, we did right by you. Though we love you, Sister, you are not getting any younger. Go to the braw man, let him take you this Beltaine, and when you cry out in pleasure, we shall jeer at Campbell camped below, and tell him your husband swives you again, it shall drive him around the bend.”

  His rare moment of seriousness past, he dashed out of the room without waiting for her response, his mirth echoing down the hall.

  Aithinne stood, exhausted, shaking her head and feeling every one of her four and score years.

  Closing her eyes, she imagined the Beltaine festival. This year the ceremony was held at her cousin Tamlyn’s holding of Glenrogha. The hours of darkness were still warm; the heady scent of apple blossoms would fill the night air. The balefire would burn on the high tòrr until dawnbreak, and Tamlyn had danced as the May Queen. Aithinne could almost inhale the redolent blooms. Hear music floating on the breeze.

  What she would not give to have been there, instead of hiding within the walls of Lyonglen, Dinsmore Campbell lurking about somewhere outside―

  “Bolt the postern gate!” she yelled.

  Einar popped his head in. “Aye, Princess, it shall be made as you wish.”

  Oonanne laughed softly as she placed a pot covered with a rag in Aithinne’s hands. “Aye, you smell apple blossoms, lass. I set this to warm. My Beltaine spell.”

  Aithinne breathed deeply, letting the stimulating apple, lavender, mandrake and heather fill her mind. “What do I do with this?”

  “Feed him part in a tansy of mead. The rest—you rub it on his chest―and elsewhere. Have him rub it on you where he takes whim. Nature will do the rest.” With a lusty twinkle in the ancient eyes, the healer chuckled.

  “Oona, nothing in my life is that simple anymore.”

  Chapter Two

  And then I'll be your ain true-love,

  I'll turn a naked knight,

  Then cover me wi’ your green mantle,

  And hide me out o sight.

  — Ballad of Tamlin

  Armed with only wavering determination and a pot of fragrant unguent, Aithinne pushed open the tower room door. She paused, listening to the eerie stillness, the whole world seeming to hold its breath, as if this instant in time would change the fate of all. A silly notion. One she could not dispel.

  A thin shaft of moonlight came through the narrow window, piercing the velvet darkness. It shrouded the chamber in impenetrable shadows, a cloak for the deed she must do. Upon her instructions no fire had been laid, so the hearth remained cold. Clad in just a thin chemise under her light woolen mantle, she shivered—though whether from the chill in the air, or misgivings about her plan, she couldn’t decide.

  Of two minds, Aithinne’s eyes went to the fat, woad candle on the table by bedside, the flickering flame doing little to light the room. Oonanne said before the wick reached one-third gone, the moon’s ethereal glow would envelop the huge bed, then the Beltaine spell she set would gain force. As a reminder, she had marked the side of the wax with a gash.

  It was nearly to that point, now.

  Turning to the door, her hand paused on the bolt before guiding it into the slot. Not that she expected Oona, Einar or the lads to disturb her. They backed her, abetted her plan. Oona was likely off practicing rites to Bel, Lord of Fire, offering ancient May Day invocations. She had done everything to see Aithinne prepared for this choice, strangely, even encouraged her in the scheme. Einar might be inclined to stand guard outside the door and growl at anyone daring to approach, howbeit he was on the curtain wall, too busy ensuring her brothers did not throw themselves off the bastion along with the chamber pots.

  The only person she feared who might come to disturb her night’s plans would be Dinsmore. She had hoped the obstinate man would decamp after it grew clear her brothers enjoyed their silly game of siege. From the narrow window, she spotted his tent on the hillside, his boar head on gold pennon flapping in the nighttime breeze.

  She sighed. Mayhap she should count blessings Phelan Comyn had not taken it into his cork-brain to come play ardent swain just because Dinsmore had. Once, foolishly, she had thought Phelan might be the man to steal her heart. He was a handsome lad, with dark auburn hair and blue eyes. Only, he could not keep his tarse in his braies. Disgusted with his lies and wandering eyes, she wanted no part of a faithless husband. Why marry if your spouse spent his time swiving anything in a kirtle? Hardly an advantage for a lass to wed, if that were the case.

  Aithinne strode to the bed, and set the pot down on the small table next to the candle. Steeling herself, she finally turned to look upon the stranger lying on the bed.

  In awe, she inhaled sharply. “Oh, aye, the man be bonnie. For once, my lackwit brothers did well by me.”

  Pulsing heat roared through her as she gazed upon his comely face and superior form. Never had she seen a more perfect male, one to haunt her dreams. As if conjured from those dark wishes, this man fulfilled every desire hidden in her secret heart.

  He rested quietly on his back, the strong chest bare. His torso was not boyish like Phelan Comyn’s, nor was it hairy as Dinsmore’s. Neither appealed to her. This man had only a faint dusting of hair right in the center of his breastbone, then gradually thickened into a line that disappeared under the plaide. The wool tartan was artfully draped across his groin.

  “Einar’s doing, no doubt. The Norseman wouldst have blushed and afforded you the modesty, my bonnie stranger. My mooncalf brothers likely sniggered and would have painted you blue with woad and tied tartan ribbons around your staff. Fortunate for you, my big Norseman was there to keep them in line.”

  Oona had not stretched the truth. The man was long of limb, thighs powerful, hard from using them to control his mighty destrier. There could be little doubt she stared at a fierce warrior, a knight. When she had sent the lads forth to find her a stud, she never hoped they would return with one so comely.

  “Where did they find you, my braw lad?” she whispered as foreboding slithered over her skin.

  Where had her brothers acquired a man of such quality? ’Twas true, he was a stranger to these parts; she would never forget this man had they met. Handsome—nay, beautiful—he had the fey allure of one born with Selkie blood. Though motionless, scorching energy thrummed from this dark warrior.

  He was silent, barely breathing. She saw no rise and fall of his chest. Fear lurched within her, worry her simple-witted brothers had dosed him too deeply.

  Had all these arrangem
ents for this night been for naught?

  Almost greedily, she reached out and stroked his thigh. His flesh was warm. Her fingers caressed the muscles of steel, dragged up to the plaide, then over the lean plane of his taut belly to his chest. Strong and steady, his heartbeat set hers to rocking, then slowed to match the cadence of his as though they shared one pulse. Holding her palm there, she opened her mind to The Kenning, trying to see into his inner heart―the soul.

  Her mind’s voice whispered this warrior was rare, special, a breed apart. What was it Oona had said about him—Ooooo, he’s a bonnie man that stands out amongst many.

  Mayhap such things should matter little. Her brothers had not fetched him so she could walk in his thoughts. What she needed from this man he would hardly miss. Males spread it around to any willing lass with nary a second thought. She should feel no guilt in the deed.

  Yet, the magnificent stranger tweaked her nosiness. “Who are you? Why come you to the Highlands, my braw knight? Have you a lady wife? Aye, you would be hard on the heart of a poor lass.”

  Jealousy surged within her, blazing with a dominance that shocked her. She tried to dismiss the reaction, chalking it up to effects of Oona’s love philter coursing through her body.

  As she stared at the midnight hair, softly curling about his handsome face, images of her cousin Tamlyn formed in her mind. Her spine straightened. Did this man know her kinswoman? She closed her eyes and focused on the thudding of his heart against her palm. The impression remained sharp. Too sharp. He had to ken Tamlyn.

  From a distance people often mistook her for Tamlyn. Only five seasons older, her cousin was a hand’s width shorter, her figure fuller. Their hair was nearly the same shade of deep gold, though Tamlyn’s lacked the hint of red that highlighted her own, and one had to be up close to notice the flecks of green in her own eyes, missing in Tamlyn’s pure amber ones. The most telling difference in Aithinne’s mind was the seven freckles across her nose, whilst her cousin bore nary a speck. Oona assured her they had faded with age, but at times she felt they were warts. Though Aithinne loved her cousin like a sister, she always felt less than perfect around beautiful Tamlyn of Glenrogha.